He starts to tell me, graphically, all the things he’s heard, from the men, in the pub, about me. About the things I’ve done with them, and to them, and even though it’s so untrue I feel stained, guilty, appalled at what I didn’t do. I want to say I never go out, how could this be, when could this be, I’ve been here all the time with your children, our children. But my strategy, my plan, carefully thought out in hours of waiting, is still in place. Don’t answer back. I don’t look up. I know already that contorted face as filthy details spout from spitting mouth. I keep my eyes averted as the look that’s on my face might be the wrong expression, and only provoke him more. But I have no choice, I have at last to play the game, and so I rise to the bait. I try to defend myself, explain, question, who? how? why? Knowing that every word I speak digs the hole deeper, but knowing that to say nothing does the same.